One
for nDc
Which, for love's book, wreathed
is a romance of the vanished; --Lyn Hejinian
recreant, blessed without secret,
not an eye but veil the foreign
client in its glass detained
for reading, when, to write?
An intermittent witness to concealing
with revealing exchanged: as if
the fled wish of third person
in sleep and watching both resigned
to a dappled trail of leaves
not there, here, nor where
but his or her remains to seem
for whose book, then, to keen?
Buffalo
Autumn Equinox
1994